


Lady Mother

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, Family, Gen, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catelyn yearns to give her lord husband a son who looks like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lady Mother

She wanted a little girl to sing to and dress in pretty gowns – some day. First Catelyn wanted another son. She had given Ned an heir within the first year of their marriage and Robb was growing into a fine boy, but the memory of Brandon was a reminder of how important younger sons were. There was another reason too, one Catelyn was not proud of. She wanted to give Ned a son who looked like him the way his bastard Jon Snow did.

When Maester Luwin put the babe in her arms, she was not disappointed, not truly. The babe looked just like Robb when he'd been born at Riverrun except for between the legs. She had a beautiful daughter. The babe was healthy and she was too; there would be other chances to have a dark, grey-eyed son. Catelyn gave the babe her breast and wondered what Ned would say.

"She has your hair," he said, gently touching the babe's full head of red hair. "What shall we call her, my lady?"

"I thought perhaps Lyanna…"

"No," he said.

Her hurt must have shown on her face for he quickly added, "Forgive me, Cat. But we should not tempt the gods to give her her namesake's fate."

That was a sound reason to Catelyn's mind. "Sansa," she said. She had always liked the name.

"Sansa." Ned stroked one tiny cheek. "She's as beautiful as her mother."

Catelyn had prayed that the war would end quickly and Ned would be back at Winterfell before the babe was born, but it was not to be. He'd been off fighting also when Robb had been born, but Catelyn found herself worrying more this time. Perhaps it was because he'd been a stranger and she'd been safe in the only home she'd known. She had visited the sept in Riverrun daily and dutifully prayed for the safety and victory of her lord husband, the father of the child growing inside her.

However her prayers were much more fervent when she went to the tiny sept Ned had built for her and begged the gods for the return of the man who held her in his arms until she fell asleep each night. She brought the children to pray with her sometimes, but Robb preferred to run wild in the godswood with his bastard half brother and he would fidget while Sansa was entranced by the pretty lights filtering through the colored glass windows, so Cat prayed alone most of the time.

She was on her knees before the Mother's altar one morning when she felt the first birthing pains. She waited for it to pass and then struggled clumsily to her feet. Outside the sept she saw a guardsman and further down there was the blacksmith. Either would have gladly helped the Lady of Winterfell, but Catelyn preferred to return to her bed chamber under her own power.

During the worst pains of birthing Robb, Catelyn had cried out for her mother, long dead, and her father, off warring. Her sister Lysa had been there to hold her hand and whisper words of comfort. As she birthed this babe, Catelyn was dimly aware that she called for Ned though she knew he couldn't come to her, that he was too far away.

Old Nan, the woman older than anyone else in the castle who had served as nursemaid to Ned and his brothers and sister, came instead. She cradled Catelyn's head in her lap and crooned at her.

"The children…" Catelyn gasped. Old Nan was supposed to be caring for the children someplace where her screams would not frighten them.

"The little ones are safe, m'lady. Come now; give them another brother to play with. Quick."

This birth seemed more difficult than her previous ones, but it was well worth it when Maester Luwin laid the babe on her chest. It was another girl, this one with dark fuzz on her scalp and a powerful voice. Cat imagined her growing up to resemble Lyanna Stark. Ned would like that, she thought, as she nursed the babe. She could not call her Lyanna though; it might bring ill luck. _Arya_, she decided.

She was watching the children when a servant came to tell her that riders were approaching the castle. They made two pretty pairs; an auburn-haired little boy and an auburn-haired little girl, and a dark-haired boy and a dark-haired baby girl. Except that Jon Snow was not hers, of course.

The gods might not have brought her husband home in time for the birth of their third child, but they had answered her other prayers. Ned was alive and whole; he'd taken only minor wounds that had healed by the time he reached Winterfell. And he had not brought home another bastard.

She greeted him more warmly at the gates than was strictly decorous. It mattered not. The other women of the castle were greeting their husbands and sweethearts among the guardsmen just as passionately – those lucky ones whose men had returned.

"Come, my lord," she said, holding his hand as they crossed the yard, "I must present Lady Arya to you."

"I prayed for you and the babe," Ned told her when his newest daughter was in his arms. "We'll all go before the heart tree and thank the gods for answering my prayers."

She could feel the eyes of the weirwood heart tree on her and it made her uneasy as ever, but Catelyn bowed her head and thanked the old gods for whatever part they had played in bringing Ned home safe. They prayed aloud, and then in silence. Even Robb stayed still and quiet, and Cat was reminded that he was a Stark and these were his gods. Ned cradled Arya and he looked at her with such adoration that Catelyn wasn't surprised when Sansa jealously reclaimed her father by petting his beard. Ned laughed and kissed her forehead.

Cat was not yet four and twenty; she had plenty of time to give Ned another son. If the gods continued to be good to them, they would have many more sons and daughters, children who shared both their looks. Jon Snow would not matter so then.

_Winter is coming_. The Stark words came to mind when Catelyn raised her head and gazed at the face some ancient had carved into the weirwood tree. Winter would come, as it always did, but Catelyn prayed for a long summer first.


End file.
